


Hunger

by Yahtzee



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Eating Disorders, Kink Meme, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this X-Men: First Class Kink Meme prompt: Shaw knew that when you are weaponizing a human being, you must also program in failsafes that will protect you should the weaponization backfire. One of the results of his attempting to "program" failsafes into Erik is that following some massive act of disobedience (like trying to kill Shaw), the sight of food becomes abhorrent to him. He can drink water, but not nearly enough to fill his stomach without gagging. It's a harsher punishment than just denying him food, because when you deny someone food they can blame you for their suffering, but in this case he only has himself to blame. And when Shaw lifts the imperative blocking him from eating, he has to feel dependent on Shaw.</p><p>Over the years he manages to get over most of the conditioning, but attacking Shaw directly triggers it again. At first Charles thinks that Erik is just sort of weird and/or doesn't eat much, but he eventually realizes what's going on and tries to help Erik get over the "failsafe."</p><p>Slightly edited/cleaned up for posting posterity.</p><p>Also serves as my fill for hurt/comfort bingo, prompt "eating disorders."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

On the ship, after the rescue, Charles finds himself famished. Swimming will do that to you. So will towing a man heavier than you through the waves. The Navy chow isn’t much to speak of – stew of undetermined origin and bland white bread – but it will answer.

As Charles tucks into his plate, spoon scraping against tin bowl, Erik comes to sit opposite him. Just the sight of this man would be exciting enough – even now, when he’s pale and tired, his hair wet and mussed – but my God, the power within him. Charles knows, deep-down, that they were meant to find one another.

“Are you feeling better?” he says. This refers both to the physical effects of nearly drowning and to the greater injury Charles sensed: the profound sense of defeat Erik as Shaw made his escape.

Erik nods. He leans his arms on the metal table, weary but not incapable. “Can you not tell that? On your own, I mean.”

“Physical things are harder. Emotions, thoughts – that’s what my power lets me read.”

“Your power,” Erik repeats. A small smile plays on his face. It looks as if he smiles seldom. Charles would like to change that. “You’re the first person I’ve ever talked about this with. Besides – besides Shaw.”

“And those were not pleasant conversations.” Charles says this very carefully. Even without probing into Erik’s mind, Charles can feel the anger and despair well up at the mere mention of the name Shaw.

“No. They weren’t.”

That’s all Erik intends to say, and Charles decides not to push. Already he can tell that Erik possesses the most iron will of anyone he has ever met – and even Erik can be brought to a breaking point, as he almost was today.

So Charles changes the subject to something he thinks will be easier. “Won’t you have something to eat? You must be starving.”

Erik stares down at the plate for a few long moments before answering. “I don’t feel like it.”

Poor devil must be seasick – that, or it’s the stew, which would be enough to put most men off. Charles smiles gently at him, and it must do Erik some good, because he manages to smile back.

**

It turns out the CIA is remarkably good at putting together identification papers for immigration on short notice. Erik Lehnsherr is able to disembark along with Charles, and they walk along the pier side by side. That’s how their hotel rooms are arranged too.

Potentially convenient, Charles thinks. As for Erik … Erik is difficult to read.

Erik has rarely left him since they were dragged up from the water together. They part only to sleep, and at mealtimes. After that first day, Charles has eaten in the mess with the sailors, doing his best to get along and demonstrate, for those in the know, that mutants are just like them: friendly, hardworking and completely disgusted by what passes for Chicken a la King on this ship. No doubt Erik isn’t ready to be around so many people yet. There’s still a fragility to him – startling in a man so strong, but undeniable.

At the hotel, Charles does his best to be very casual and suave as he says, “We won’t be meeting with Moira again until tomorrow, so – maybe you’d like to get dinner?” It still sounds like he’s asking for a date. Damn.

Except – except that Erik understands that, and he likes it. When their eyes meet this time, there’s a charge to it that hasn’t been there before, and Charles can’t help smiling.

“Not dinner,” Erik says. Although he’s not smiling back, there’s an emotion brewing in him that feels awfully like anticipation. “Perhaps we could split a bottle of wine.”

The offer intoxicates Charles so much that he doesn’t even wonder why Erik refused dinner.

**

Nearly midnight.

They’re sitting on the balcony of Charles’ hotel room, an absurdly small, concrete-bound space that nonetheless looks out on Washington, D.C.’s mall at night. Charles doesn’t mind the size, because it means he and Erik are very close to one another, shoulder to shoulder, at the table. The grapes and cheese Charles ordered from room service remain almost untouched, but the bottle is nearly empty.

Does he have to get drunk first? Charles doesn’t like that, but some men have trouble facing the fact that they desire other men.

And he knows, by now, that Erik desires him, almost as much Charles desires Erik. There’s only this strange sensation stopping Erik from making his move – something Charles can’t quite identify.

Doesn’t matter. Charles will make the first move himself in just a minute.

“How did a British citizen wind up working for the CIA?” Erik says, chin in his hand. He’s swaying slightly.

“Dual citizenship. My mother was English, but my father was American. I spent half my childhood in London, the other half in upstate New York.” Charles runs one finger along the side of his wineglass. “You should come up to the house with me. To stay.”

It sounds as if he means he wants Erik to stay forever. Probably it’s just the Riesling talking, but maybe Charles does mean forever. Erik is the kind of man who makes him want that before they’ve even kissed.

“I’d like that.” Erik’s voice is low. “Very much.”

“So would I.”

Their eyes meet again, and Charles feels Erik readying himself for a great leap. Very well, he can make the first move after all. Charles will make the second move, and the third, and whatever other moves Erik might like.

“I think – ” Erik pauses, laughs slightly at himself. “I’m drunk enough to do this now.”

Charles whispers, “Do what?”

And Erik takes a slice of cheese from the plate and nearly stuffs it in his mouth whole.

At first Charles thinks it’s some sort of absurd way of stalling, but then he senses the emotions exploding within Erik: guilt, anger, and disgust. Erik gets up and runs into the hotel room, and before Charles can even follow, he hears Erik in the bathroom, vomiting.

Too much wine, Charles thinks.

Then he thinks again. He weighs everything he’s felt from Erik since the day they met. And he realizes, so belatedly it shames him, that he’s never before seen Erik eat solid food.

Suddenly, small fragments he’s gleaned here and there from Erik’s thoughts come together, forming a pattern so terrible, so shocking, that Charles is loath to believe it.

Yet he does.

**

A few minutes later, Charles is sitting next to Erik on the bed – precisely where he wanted this evening to end, but it’s very different from his fevered imaginings. Instead of having passionate sex, he’s holding a cool, damp cloth to Erik’s forehead. “Deep, even breaths.”

Erik nods feebly. My God, how weak he is. What superhuman effort it must have taken for him to behave as if everything were well, when he has not eaten in days, at least.

Obviously, if Erik found it easy to talk about this, he would have spoken before now. So Charles starts with what he already knows. “Shaw did this to you,” he says. “Made you – unable to eat.”

Erik’s eyes widen. But the emotion that sweeps through him as he realizes Charles is already aware is relief. His words come out as a whisper: “When I disobey him.”

Charles frowns. He’d thought this might be brainwashing, but it’s more complex than he’d realized. “Will you tell me?”

“Someone should know.” After a deep breath, Erik says, “Shaw taught me to use my powers so that I could become a weapon. His weapon. But he knew how I hated him. All I wanted was to use my power to destroy him.”

The reasons for Erik’s hate flicker in Charles mind, jerky and fluttering like the pictures in a zoetrope: The concentration camp. Erik’s mother lying dead on the floor, blood spattered around her like a starburst. Shaw’s sick laughter.

Nauseated, Charles grips Erik’s hand – to steady Erik, but to steady himself, too. It’s almost unbelievable how much this man already means to him. The thought of him as a boy, being hurt – it tears at Charles. Worse, though, is the fact that Erik has been next to him, suffering, for days, and Charles the psychic failed to see.

Erik continues, “He programmed me like I was one of Pavlov’s dogs. Anytime I disobeyed him, he would have them dose me with chemicals that made me violently ill. We had so little food anyway, and when he did that – sometimes I vomited so hard I cracked my ribs. After a few months, he didn’t need the chemicals any longer. When I disobeyed Shaw, I became unable to eat – unless and until he freed me. Simple for him. Not for me.”

“You’ve been free of Shaw for some time,” Charles says. “But he didn’t lift the programming.”

“He fled as the Allies were approaching. Coward.” Erik almost spits the word out. “Shaw must have realized he could hardly remain incognito with a half-starved Jewish child as his prisoner. But he wanted to keep me in chains, all the rest of my life. And he has.”

“Dear God.” Charles removes the washcloth to soak it in cool water for a few minutes; he brushes his fingers over Erik’s damp forehead, only afterward wondering why he assumed this would be soothing rather than startling. But Erik closes his eyes at the touch, experiencing what must be the closest thing he can feel to pleasure in his wretched state.

“I fought the conditioning,” Erik murmurs. “I thought I had beaten it. But seeing Shaw again and hearing his voice – actually trying to kill him – it’s come back. And this time I think it will be the death of me.”

“The hell it will,” Charles says, his voice so rough it surprises him. “Let’s consider this. You can drink – we found that out – ”

“Very little. Hardly more than a glass at a time.”

Charles glances toward the balcony. “You had half a bottle of wine tonight.”

“No. You had nearly an entire bottle by yourself. I managed to force down about half a glass. Hungry as I was, it was enough to get me tipsy, and I thought – well. I was wrong.” When Erik opens his eyes again, his gaze glints with dark humor. “You have remarkable alcohol tolerance, by the way. I suppose that’s the English half.”

“Could you get down some soup?”

Erik shakes his head. “I tried once on the ship. Came right back up.”

“Right. We’re taking you to the hospital. An IV will at least keep you going.”

“For how long?” Erik’s laugh is bitter. “A few days? Do you want to leave me in a cot to wither away with a tube in my arm?”

“No.” Charles frames Erik’s face with his hands. To hell with what’s been said or not said: He thinks they both know their truth. “We’re going to get you strong. And then I’m going into your head and throwing Shaw out.”

**

It’s two days before Erik’s judged well enough to leave the hospital. The fluids and nutrients he’s received intravenously have done nothing to sate Erik’s hunger – Charles can feel the signs of it now within him, a mixture of desperation and despair – but he has color again. He’ll be able to make the trip to North Salem. It’s a full day’s drive, but Charles intends to floor it and convince every cop on the roads that he has something better to do than give out speeding tickets.

Erik walks across the parking lot under his own power, but it’s obvious how grateful he is to slide into the seat. Charles comes around, jangling the keys nervously in his hand.

“Stop that or I’ll stop it for you,” Erik says amiably as Charles gets behind the wheel. “Kills the mood.”

“What mood?”

“This is as good as I ever expect to feel again during my probably short life.” Erik half-turns to face Charles in the car. “So I’m not going to wait any longer.”

Oh.

His hand curves around Charles’ face, and then Erik kisses him, long, slow and sweet. Erik’s body is not too weak for passion, because Charles feels it now, washing over him in waves. Or is that his own desire? The mere scent of Erik’s skin, the nearness of him after all these days of longing, is enough to overwhelm. Charles opens Erik’s mouth with his own, searches deep with his tongue, making Erik moan softly against his lips. Their arms go around each other in an embrace that feels like two lovers more than a first kiss.

When they part, Erik whispers, “Glad I did that now. It’s already enough to make me dizzy.”

“Made me dizzy too.” Charles strokes his fingers through Erik’s hair. “And you’re going to lead a very long life.”

“There are limits to even your powers, Charles. Trust me. I found out exactly where my own limits were, and they were far short of my dearest goal.”

“You were alone then. Not now.” Charles kisses Erik again, briefly. Although his entire body is turned on, electric, attuned to Erik’s nearness, he forces himself to turn back to the wheel. Erik’s not well, and his safety is the only priority that matters.

Time for lovemaking later, after Charles has saved him.

**

Sadly, Charles dreams of being a valiant rescuer do not match reality.

He tries. They both try, so hard. Erik’s mind is a fortress of battlements and barbed wire, meant to keep out everyone and everything that could matter to him besides revenge – but he lays his soul bare to Charles, doesn’t fight even the deepest delving into his mind. Charles wants to cry at the thought of being given such rare, precious trust. Even worse is the fact that he doesn’t deserve it.

No matter what Charles attempts, he gets nowhere. This conditioning is too primal to be easily undone. There is no need more basic than hunger, and there is no fear Erik has ever known that comes close to matching his fear of Shaw. For Erik, Sebastian Shaw is the form in the shadows, the unknown, the monster under the bed, mortality, weakness, failure. Everything that could mean terror or hatred to a person, Shaw means to Erik.

Three days in, Charles is exhausted, and Erik can hardly walk across the room any longer. That evening, as he tries to reach the couch, he pauses, swaying on his feet. Quickly Charles goes to his side and slings one of Erik’s arms over his shoulder.

Erik glances sideways. “If you wanted me in your embrace, there were other ways of going about it. And I’m hardly in any condition to resist.”

“You have a dark sense of humor, you know that?”

“Who would have thought it?” Erik sighs as Charles settles him onto the couch, then sits by his side. At that moment, Charles’ stomach growls, and Erik laughs, a small, bleak sound. “Does telepathy mean even hunger is catching?” Then his smile fades. “Of course not. Or you’d have known from the day we met that something was wrong. Dear God – Charles – you’re eating, aren’t you?”

“Some. Not much.”

“If I were stronger, I would slap you.” Erik’s anger burns hot enough to sear Charles’ mind. “How dare you? Do you know what I’d give to be in your shoes? To be able to swallow a fucking scrap of bread? Do you think it makes you nobler to starve with me? It doesn’t. It just makes you a fool.”

“I can’t stand to do it!” Charles cries. “I leave you, and I sit down to my plate, and I start eating – and then I feel so stupidly guilty – ”

“The operative word is stupid.” But Erik sighs and takes one of Charles’ hands in his own. His anger was easier for Charles to bear than his resignation. “Tonight, you eat. Promise me.”

Charles nods. He’s ashamed of himself – making this about him when it’s so certainly not.

Erik’s thumb makes small circles in Charles’ palm. “You should have left me in the ocean, you know. I’d have preferred a quicker death.”

“Stop saying that you’re going to die.”

Erik ignores this. His head lolls backward to rest against the couch, and his skin is pale against his dark turtleneck. “It’s more cruel this way. It takes so much longer, and now – now I know what I might have had.” Erik’s hand tightens around Charles’. “I wish we had more time.”

“Don’t give up. Shaw wins if you give up.”

“I’m afraid Shaw wins anyway.”

Charles is angry enough to slap Erik, even as weak as Erik is, but instead he takes Erik’s chin in his hand and kisses him -- only their third kiss, but it feels like the continuation of a longstanding love affair. That would better fit the way they know each other, how to move, how to tilt, the way Charles knows how Erik will breathe and taste. Despite Erik’s weakness, his body responds with arousal so sharp that it seems to cut Charles open. They slide into each other’s embrace, Erik leaning against him, and the kiss doesn’t end until they’re both trembling. Erik’s heart beats so hard Charles can feel it in his own chest.

As Charles folds Erik against his shoulder, he repeats, very quietly, “Don’t give up. Please.”

“All right.” Erik is unconvinced; Charles can feel it. He still believes he will die. But he’s willing to die more slowly for Charles’ sake.

Charles shuts his eyes tightly, angry at the whole world for punishing this man so, above all angry at Shaw – it’s Shaw at the center of this, Shaw who tore down the strongest person Charles has ever met, only and always Shaw –

Then his eyes open. The answer sinks over him, heavy, terrible and true.

“Charles?” Erik manages to lift his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Charles stares into the dark horizon only he can see, the one approaching fast. “Nothing at all, now. I know the way out.”

**

“What do you mean?”

Charles turns to Erik there, cherishing the trust he sees in his eyes for the last moments he will ever have it. “Forgive me.”

He does what he must to save Erik’s life.

He reaches inside Erik’s mind, rips away everything that ties him to the here and now, and puts him back in the camp. In Shaw’s office. The knives and meathooks hang in the next room.

And Charles pulls the illusion over and around himself, so that he becomes Sebastian Shaw.

It sears like acid to see the terror and hatred in Erik’s eyes. Sickens him to turn the cozy study into this brutal place. And it disgusts Charles to do what he must do. This is the cost of saving Erik’s life.

“You’ve disobeyed me.” Charles backhands Erik sharply, so that Erik’s head snaps back. He knows, from Erik’s memories, that there was always a price to be paid. The illusion must be complete. “You should know better by now.”

He slaps Erik again, and Erik is so weak that he slumps down onto the floor. There’s a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Charles wants to cry or kiss that blood away, but he can’t stop, for Erik’s sake.

So he grips Erik by his hair, forces his head back and says what Shaw always used to say: “Beg me.”

Erik’s shaking. He’s no longer a strong man but the orphaned boy surrounded by killers – but he doesn’t beg. He can’t speak, but he mouths the word _No._

His courage brings tears to Charles’ eyes. But it only makes this worse. Only makes it last longer.

He slaps Erik again. Then again. There’s blood on his hand now, blood on the floor. He brings his foot down on Erik's hand and fills his mind with the crushing pain he would feel if Charles were grinding hard enough to crack bone. “Beg me! Beg my forgiveness.”

Something inside Erik snaps. The words escape him despite his anger and his will: “Forgive me.”

Charles lets go of Erik's hair, steps away from his hand. Erik falls limply to the floor. The illusion has to remain a while longer yet, but Charles can navigate through it to reach a plate of toast and bananas they’d tried working with earlier that day. He kneels by Erik, places the food in front of him and gives Shaw’s final command: “Eat.”

Weakly, Erik reaches for a piece of toast. He bites, chews, swallows. Despite the feeble condition of his stomach, he’s able to keep it down. Charles watches in increasing relief as Erik keeps going.

When finally he’s sure that the old cue has been broken, Charles takes a deep breath and releases the illusion. The camp melts away, revealing again the bust of Goethe, the Persian rug, the fire in the fireplace. And his face, laid bare in a way Charles feels it never has been before.

Erik freezes. He looks up – blood still smeared across his cheek – and stares at Charles with such horror and revulsion that Charles wants to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says.

Erik scrambles backward – toast still in his hand – and whispers, “Get away from me.”

“Erik – ”

“Get out!”

Charles runs from the room. Later he’ll tell the cook to send up more food. Tomorrow he’ll loan Erik one of the cars as long as he would like, give it to him if he wants it, so he can make a better escape from Charles forever and ever. As much as this hurts, though, Charles knows he did the only thing he could do.

He has saved Erik, and that’s all that matters.

**

Charles lies awake in his bed for hours. There’s no chance of sleep, not tonight.

His hands still sting from hitting Erik.

Yes, that’s his imagination, but Charles knows too well the power of imagination. He drew an illusion around Erik tonight and in so doing saved his life. The cost was –

\--what can he call it? The promise of something that might have been? A chance? How much can Charles honestly say he’s lost after only three kisses?

Then he remembers that last kiss, and he knows: He has lost the man he loves.

Charles rolls over on his belly and clutches his pillow. He refuses to cry about this – Erik has been saved, and that sustains him – but his throat is tight, and the hours are long.

But then – coming closer through the mansion –

Lifting his head, Charles realizes Erik is walking toward his room.

He pulls in his abilities sharply, unwilling to violate Erik further. As he sits upright, running a hand through his hair, there’s a soft rapping on the door.

“Come in,” Charles says. His voice is still hoarse.

Erik steps inside. He’s wearing an undershirt and boxers, which startles Charles – now feeling somewhat juvenile in pinstriped pajamas. But then, what do they have to hide from each other any longer? Charles has seen Erik’s greatest pain. God only knows what Erik sees in him after this afternoon.

The side of Erik’s mouth is bruised.

Charles begins. “Have you been eating?”

“Some toast. Scrambled eggs. Applesauce.” Erik says these words almost reverently, though at any other time, Charles bets, he’s a steak and potatoes man. “Tomorrow, perhaps, I can try more. But – it feels good. Not being hungry.”

“Thank God.” Surely he has come here for an explanation. “Erik, I’m sorry I had to do that.”

“Are you apologizing for saving my life?”

“No. Only for hurting you.”

Erik cocks his head, and Charles begins to feel something that might be hope. He reaches out with his powers and feels – not anger, not betrayal, but deep uncertainty and … call it curiosity. “When you looked down on me, as Shaw, what did you see?”

It’s not the question Charles was expecting. He considers the answer at length before answering. “Great strength.”

“I hope Shaw saw that, at least once.”

“Nobody who ever met you could see anything else.” Charles takes a deep breath. “What do you see when you look at me?”

Erik steps closer to the bed, eyes narrowed, as if he is studying Charles anew. Then he says, “A foolhardy and beautiful man.”

Charles will assess that later; it’s not what he needs to know most. “Not Shaw?”

“Shaw?” Erik laughs. “You risked your life to rescue me when I was drowning. You held my head when I was sick. You took me to the hospital. You offered me your home. To find out what hurt me, you let it hurt you too. And when you thought the cost of saving me was making me hate you – you didn’t even hesitate. Charles, you’re less like Shaw than any man I ever met.”

Then Erik leans down to him and covers Charles’ mouth in a kiss.

It’s a gentle touch – no more than a brush against the lips – but to Charles it feels like a resurrection of his hopes. He traces the side of Erik’s face with two fingers, then draws him down to sit on the bed as he whispers, “It’s really all right?”

“At first, you frightened me,” Erik admits. “I hardly knew what was real and what was a dream. And your power – it’s not as if you hadn’t told me what you could do, but I had no idea of the magnitude of your abilities. It startled me to know such a thing was even possible.”

Charles can do far more than that, but maybe this isn’t the moment to discuss it.

Erik continues, “But when I was back to myself – when I’d finally eaten, thank God, and thank you – then I realized what you’d done for me. I thought you’d come back, and when you didn’t – ” The paleness of his face counts for nothing compared to the brilliance of his smile. “The mountain has come to Mohammed.”

Despite the hope he feels, Charles understands that Erik is someone with a troubled past, and it’s important to be clear. “You know you don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you a great deal. But I’m not here for payments due. I’m here because I needed to be with you, Charles. I hope you need to be with me. ”

It occurs to Charles that it might be early to say this, and yet it feels absurd that he hasn’t said it already. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They kiss again, just for a moment. Charles dares to reach out with his power, and he realizes how weary Erik still is. His recovery will take more than a few hours.

“Lie back,” Charles whispers, pushing Erik’s shoulders gently onto the mattress. “Let me take care of you one more time.”

When he reaches inside Erik’s boxers, Erik is already hard for him.

Charles dips downward, taking Erik into his mouth. Erik makes a muffled sound against the pillow he’s clutched as he bucks up, wordlessly asking for more. Starting slowly, Charles traces his tongue around and around, gentle spirals. Through their connection, he can feel how much Erik likes that – and how much more he’s ready for.

So Charles begins sucking, concentrating right on the smooth rounded head against his tongue, cushioning the motions with his lips so Erik will feel nothing rough, only heat and pressure and softness. Erik’s hands curve around the back of Charles’ neck; it’s a simple caress, but one that suggests how much more forceful he can be when he’s fully himself. Charles can’t wait.

But tonight is sweet. Tonight it’s enough to feel Erik’s excitement increasing, to weave that excitement through his own mind so that his body responds, to know that they’re getting hard together. Riding the crest together. Erik is crying out for both of them, thrusting for both of them.

He comes with a shout, sound and sensation ripping through Charles together so that he can only follow. His orgasm follows Erik’s, an echo that leaves him breathless.

“My God.” Erik’s panting, lightheaded; Charles knows he was right to keep it simple tonight. “Charles – please, let me –”

“You already have.” Charles guides Erik’s hand to his cock to feel the warmth and wetness there. “Feeling you – that can be enough, for me.” He then curls by Erik’s side, happy lying in his embrace, lovers at last. “But don’t think for a moment that I don’t want more once you're well. When you’re ready.”

Erik whispers. “I can’t wait."

**

END


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